


Refunds

by TunaFax



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series, Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, Pre-Poly, Thiefshipping, Threesome - M/M/M, but Bakura likes it, cutesy language barrier, kinda rough at first, rogueshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TunaFax/pseuds/TunaFax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all Ryou's fault, Bakura thinks and blames the woes of puberty on Ryou's nimble cockslut body. </p><p>Or, the one where Marik loses their Millennium Items, there's an asshole with a manly scar on Bakura's couch, and Bakura struggles to find the meaning of life. They are, after all, just three very broken men.<br/> </p><p> </p><p>SS gift for Straightzivens! <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ziven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziven/gifts).



1.

 _It's all Ryou's fault_ , Bakura thinks and blames the woes of puberty on Ryou's nimble cockslut body.

There's a premise: Marik, bent low over a pile of shimmering wallets. Gravity peels his spectacular midriff bare, and rich honey fingers scratch absently where loose fabric irritates a nipple. Marik's tight pants are extra tight today - and at least they're not backwards - but he's as inapt at dressing himself as he is with most things. At this angle, it's painfully obvious (in Bakura's pants) that Marik has misplaced his _under_ pants.

Catastrophically. 

In a pile of shimmering wallets, it seems, because Bakura has no idea what the fuck is going on anymore. He hasn't for what feels like years. It probably has been years, for all he knows.

Not that he minds. Marik is a picture, and his only room for improvement is the floor where Yugi Motou's dead body would match the shape of his ass rather well. 

"What the fuck is this?" he asks and knows he won't like the answer even if he pulls enough teeth get one.

Marik arcs his back as he reaches for a runaway wallet. A bit more, and veiled intrigue of his entire asscrack will be an intrigue no more.

"Be quiet, Bakura! I can't assert my masculinity with you talking over me!" he screeches and lets his legs slide apart. "Which is what I'm doing! Asserting my masculinity!"

Bakura consults his past for answers.

Whatever the fuck he did in his past life - theft, murder, grave desecration, skipping dinner bills - surely can't be bad enough to deserve Marik Fucking Ishtar.

His Past, capital 'P' and physically real enough to take up the whole couch, just shrugs and pops a chicken nugget.

Great.

Now he's eating Bakura's food and living in Bakura's house and leering at Marik's ass with the same intensity Bakura wishes Marik would leer at Bakura's ass, except he has neither the willpower nor the pants to make it happen. 

He blames Ryou's nimble cockslut body again. But it's Ryou's body, no matter the permanency of Bakura's lease on it, and perhaps Ryou's body does after all require Ryou's meds. Maybe then Bakura might stop being a doormat for this asshole.

The Thief King, meanwhile, lathers mayo all over his hands and laps up the drizzle from his perched middle finger.

"Oi, get fucked, you," Bakura tells him in Japanese.

Except he might actually get fucked. It sits like Play Doh in the bottom of Bakura's gut, because Marik's cooking sometimes gets creative, and because it's day three and the weather report's got a good dicking penned in all the way to next Sunday if they don't figure out how to put this fucking guy _back_.

The Thief, of course, doesn't understand, but he grins like a savage. Smacks his lap. Beckons.

"[Slut, c'mere an' let me loosen you up real good]," he calls in high hieratic because he wants Marik to hear, and Marik doesn't speak common tongue at all.

"[Loose up good?]" Marik repeats with a heavy accent, and once Bakura hears his unapologetic tone he knows something unnecessarily large is amiss. Something unnecessarily large, magical and golden. "[Loose. Looooose- no, Manly Bakura, we do not _lose_ thing, do not is stupid.]"

"Marik, for fuck's sake, where the fuck is the Ring!"

"Why, with the Rod, of course," Marik tells him and Bakura notices something else unnecessarily large, magical and golden missing from Marik's jerking grasp, and his (very loosely defined) partner (in crime, unfortunately) is now wielding what looks like an unfortunately phallic popsicle.

"Marik, it's December, put that away before you get a strep throat!" he growls despite himself. "And tell me where the fuck our Items are!"

Marik deep-throats the popsicle, tells Bakura he's not his mother, and Bakura can't deal with him anymore.

He turns to the Thief King.

"[The fuck happened?]"

Thief taps his lap again and seduces Bakura with a juicy bag of McDonalds. He finds that the bag is but an empty promise once he's close enough to get a pat on the ass.

He doesn't even swat him away. But he looks to Marik who is once again Busy With His Wallets and very pointedly Not Looking At The Gays.

"[He put your gold shit in this locked box in a wall 'cause some cunts said we can't bring weapons inside- inside that house with old shit in it.]"

"[Okay]," reasonably stupid by Marik's standards, but so far not too bad.

"[And we went to stare at the giant rock, I guess]," the Thief says and scratches his ass because jeans still don't quite agree with him. "[It was a giant rock. Dunno what to tell you.]"

"[Did you try reading it maybe?]"

The Thief just throws his head back and laughs. It's a disturbing sound, music to Bakura's ears, and even Marik likes the sound of it, the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing, and modern hair products do the Thief 's hair the justice it always deserved. Bakura would run his hands through that hair, feel it silky and knot-free for the first time in his life, even if this life of his is borrowed and damaged. He'd run his hands over that scar - over all scars and skin in between them - smell him and remember _himself_ from vaguely quantified three to five millennias ago. He still doesn't know how long he's been chasing this fucking nightmare in the sand, except millennias stripped from him all but his vengeance.

And Marik Fucking Ishtar is well on his way to take from him even that.

Bakura doesn't touch the Thief. He wants to - Horus and all shitty bird deities be damned - he really wants to.

But he doesn't, lets the Thief laugh his fill, and even chuckles alongside him because peasant literacy is indeed quite humorous.

"[So then]," the Thief resumes with a wicked glimmer in his eye, "[when starin' at the rock didn't make time go back or anythin', the cunts come back, right, say they found some old shit misplaced, and put your gold shit in a window.]"

"[A display case]," Bakura corrects him.  "[Why didn't you just steal our stuff back?]"

"[Are you kidding? This guy is so fuckin' funny. Why don't _you_ steal it back?]"

"[It's funny]," Bakura agrees.

 

2. 

"My throat hurts," Marik complains as he's listing his museum gift shop wallets on eBay. They're worth exactly a dollar each. "I do all the work in this house, no one ever helps me! But that's okay, because with my plan we'll buy our Items back from the museum in no time!"

And, as if on cue, some idiot places a $1.10 bid on one of the wallets, and so the rest of everything in the history of forever is justified as far as Marik is concerned.

He's still not wearing any underpants, so Bakura does the reasonable thing and agrees with him.

"[Yo, slut]," the Thief calls from the couch, "[tell your prude to shut the fuck up, can't hear what my girls are sayin'.]"

He can't understand what his camgirls are saying. They're either asking for money or moaning, but Bakura tells Marik to shut up anyway.

 "I can't shut up, because my throat hurts! You're so heartless, Bakura, jeez."

Bakura tells him not to eat ice cream every winter, and every winter, like clockwork, Marik does. It's always one thing or another with this guy, and it seems the harder Bakura labors to catch a break the harder his dick gets.

What he catches instead are Marik's colds. Things tend to catch on fire with Marik around. Sometimes, he catches promises of ass, ridiculous phallic mishaps, occasional shower nudity. Marik likes to drop to his knees in public and tie Bakura's shoes. He catches Marik's lips where they shouldn't be. Fingers catch in the last shreds of his soul and every crevice of him, except where he wants them, and Marik is a liar and a prude and a sadistic cunt for making them both dredge though his infinite bullshit.

But there's safety in that, Bakura knows, because Bakura feels it too every time their noses touch and their lips don't. 

"Wa'at say?" the Thief perks up, smelling sexual tension like he's a shark, and there's blood in the water, and someone's wanking off to it.

"[He says he sucked so many dicks his throat hurts, and now he wants you to help him out]," Bakura grits.

The Thief raises his brow and grins at Marik.

"[Prude, you really say that?]" he appraises him, then turns to Bakura. "[Nah.]"

"See, Bakura! Even you don't believe you because it's obvious I would never say such nonsense!" Marik shrieks in Japanese. Then, in hieratic: "[I say my neck hurts and because I work hard and he do not share my burden!]"

The Thief cackles, gets up from his seat and stretches like an unwanted guest who owns the house just because he pisses there.

And then, a blink later, he's crossed the tiles, and he's got his thumbs in Marik's vacant belt loops.

He's leering, looming, laughing - and he'd get his face smashed in with the Rod if Marik still had his Rod.

Instead, he gets a kiss.

It's a vicious and hungry thing, filthy and disgusting to see in the middle of a kitchen where some people _eat_ , mighty Ra, what the _fuck_ , women can get pregnant from this - at least according to Marik, probably, and half-way through compartmentalizing his jealous disgust Bakura realizes that Marik's bullshit is contagious.

This fucking guy comes into _Bakura's_ house, eats _his_ food, and now makes out with _his_ -

"What the frig," Marik demands and wipes his mouth. He's perplexed and thoroughly ruffled. His lips are red. Their lips are red. Bakura wants either pair around his cock.

"[Sharin' your burden, darling]," the Thief says right into his mouth, real slow, all milk and honey. "[Your neck hurts. Now my neck's gonna hurt too, yeah?]"

"Oh, well," Marik starts with the wrong language and doesn't quite bristle. "[You share pain and suffering. Good.]"

"[Good]," the Thief laughs and tugs at his belt loops.

He stares Bakura dead in the eye then. Lets his long tongue trace the scar on his bottom lip. Measures Bakura. Challenges him.

"[I'm gonna fuck your prude]," he says in common, and Marik really is oblivious for once. Bakura can tell from a rare glimmer in his eye that Marik hates not knowing.

The glimmer is there, and then it's gone, and Marik retreats to safety, and for once he's better off.

"[I decide I do not like you very. Go away watch the fucking.]"

'The fucking' is something he wasn't taught fifty feet under the sand, and amidst his sour jealousy and reluctance, it's balm on Bakura's pride to know he snuck a bit of himself through Marik's thick skull.

The Thief doesn't like shows. Bakura made sure of it.

He has no clue what anything is, has an annoying habit of asking _everything_ , and it only gets worse from there because he can't understand the language.

He likes cartoons though. And pornos, lovingly christened 'the fucking' by Merik who thinks his shitty hieratic is better than theirs. Pornos seem to be a universal multilingual thing that bridges the cultural gap pretty well, and the Thief learns to click through RedTube much faster than he learns he shouldn't eat half-cooked anything.

It doesn't stop him.

He leaves and comes back with chicken Bakura set not even five minutes ago, slumps into the couch and casually drapes one arm around the back with just enough space for a person.

One smooth leer his way, and Bakura knows it's for him.

"[Manly Bakura, you do not eat chicken, you die, and I have yours and sell in eBay!]"

Less masculine Bakura picks seasoning off Manly Bakura's raw chicken and eats only that because he knows Ryou's pampered lactose-intolerant body might actually die on him, and then he's not looking forward to possessing Tea Gardner on the count of Marik's alarmed screams once he sees what 'the Gays' are up to not even five minutes after he made out with a dude in the middle of a kitchen.

It's been three days, and Marik's masculinity crisis is still raging.

 He's a caricature of his safer self, secure in his idiocy ever since a taller, toned and tanned 'Bakura' materialized naked in their living room.

It's the same among all the Rod bastards, really: tenacity against common sense, the way Seto Kaiba convinced himself for years that magic and insanity were interchangeable, and what shaped him into a man from a brat who tore up trading cards  was Yugi Motou's mental illness.

Ryou tells him Kaiba's got a therapist now. Good riddance. He believed what happened to him in Egypt for exactly a week until he tried to check himself into a psych ward with a self-diagnosed breakdown and several work laptops.

What can Bakura say to that? The blasted Rod has a type.

Marik comes from a world of duty and obedience. He allows himself to like motorcycles because no one really told him he couldn't.

He doesn't allow himself to like men.

And, Ryou's nimble cockslut body is what it is. Marik can wear his stupid tight pants all he wants, but when he sees Bakura for the first time - really _sees_ him in his entire ugly and mangled glory - there's not much room for tenacity.

"Oh my frig, that is an excellent vagina!"

So the Thief is watching pornos.

With girls in it.

Bakura tunes him out and slumps lazily under his former self's arm.

 No one taught the Thief about deodorant. Bakura's glad for it because Manly Bakura's musk is calming and earthly. It's as tangible as a lazy arm on his back, drawing circles just under the hem of his jeans, and it's the calmest Bakura has felt in a while, because he's a masochist wanker and craves affection from people he despises.

Of course, it rubs him the wrong way that he has to travel forwards in fucking time to work through years of unresolved tension. It rubs him wrong, and he wishes the Thief would rub him _every_ kind of wrong, and Bakura would close his eyes and pretend it's Marik.

But the Thief rises one brow at leather-clad tease in tight pants, and he's scooting over, jamming Bakura against an armrest, and Marik's got a spot under the Thief's other sweaty arm with his name on it.

"[You're a fucking idiot],"  Bakura tells him, "[he'll never sit.]"

It's a bit amazing how well the Thief learned to navigate RedTube in just three days, considering he pisses in public sinks and thinks the elevator to parking is a ride to the shadow realm. He clicks cleanly through the gay porno section and picks out something that's got a visited link and rimming in the title, not that he can read it.

It's a hit.

Marik settles gingerly on his other side.

"[Just fucking die already]," Bakura groans. "[How about I kill you, and then nobody'll have to worry about putting you back.]"

"[Then why I sell purse in eBay!]" Marik complains, and the Thief sort of herds them both by the hair until they shut up and settle into him, and it works - fuck this warm fucking guy who smells really good - it works.  

Two minutes in, and the dudes in the video are having a really good time.

Bakura's not having a good time.

Bakura's seething. He thinks back to what he would do if he was still a scarred up whore from some godforsaken village a million fucking years ago watching pornos with two easy sluts,  and he knows he'd have one hand down someone's pants and the other in a fistfight.

There is no hand down Bakura's pants.

And Marik's grown quiet - suspiciously quiet.

Fuck Bakura's fucking life.

He spends the next minute giving himself a headache, then another two forcing his eyes to look as sideways as they would to see what- wh-

Marik is leaning against the backrest stiffly. He's as still as if he had a stick up his ass - and he doesn't, but there's a hand down his shirt, and it's not his own.

 His arm hairs are standing and he's gripping his knees.

But his eyes are soft. He's white-knuckled and stiff and he's got a hand down his shirt, but Marik's eyes are fucking soft and he _likes it._   

"[Buy him dinner first]," Bakura hisses. The last time he actually paid for something was never. He's paid a lot, but never in money so it doesn't count, and maybe, just fucking _maybe_ , this fucking asshole could've _asked_ before touching Bakura's _stuff_.

The Thief doesn't ask.  

But he answers alright, but not with words, just pushes a sandy head into his lap until Marik's lying on him like he would lie on Bakura during stormy nights when Domino redirects all its emergency power to KaibaCorp assets, else whatever the fuck Kaiba is up to these days would blow up (or sell off) the entire city.

 Marik hates the dark. Not many people know this.

Bakura knows.

Bakura lets him sleep with the lights on and cradles his screaming dead weight when the dark seeps into his dreams.

They sit exactly like this sometimes, rarely-sometimes, and it's a treat Bakura hoards far more tenderly than he's ever hoarded anything golden.  

Except him - himself, his bigger, manlier self - just pushes Marik's shirt all the way up and casually goes back to toying with his perky nipples like it's nothing, like getting this far with Marik is _nothing_ , and Marik stares at two dudes on the screen pleasuring each other like it's _nothing_.

This asshole's been here for three fucking days, and Marik is so fucking easy with him, but then maybe Marik is just easy. Or maybe Bakura is too easy for them both.

Marik makes the tiniest of noises, and he sure does look easy.

Bakura grits his teeth, and there are teeth right by his ear, hellish and sharp and hot, blistering when the Theif whispers to him: "[if you just gonna sit there, I'll swap your names.]"

Marik hears him just when Bakura's about to get up and leave.

He hears the Thief, and it's like he remembers Bakura's still here, still third-wheeling his personal fucking romantic comedy, so Marik is the one to jump from the couch like his ass caught fire.

Bakura wouldn't be surprised if the Thief's sticky fingers found their way in there, too.


	2. Refunds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: pretty rough sex

1.

"Where's Marik?" Bakura asks _him_ without looking his way, and the language is snappy and comfortable between them for once.

"Out," the Thief licks his teeth and circles Bakura's bed, not that there's much to circle. It's a tiny contraption, single in every meaning of the word including keeping Bakura just that.

But it's the only thing that fits his bedroom with enough floor space to spare for the hideous mess Bakura's made of it. He stopped caring about impressing anyone with his good housewife skills around the time he took Marik out on a date to the mall that one time, and Marik shopped all day for an upcoming date with 'someone else' with not-really-Bakura's credit card.

It's not even a bedroom, it's a den with a glass door he taped up with newspapers, plopped a bed in and enough of his crap to give it that certain _je ne sais quoi_ , and _voila!_ Bakura has his unfortunate bachelor's pad.

And the thing is, it's not even Marik's apartment - it's Ryou's - but evicting Marik from their single actual bedroom is akin to spending three to five thousand years crammed into  a ten-inch vaguely christened ring and then three more cornering a tiny man with large hair into a very elaborate D&D setup to _evict_ an already-dead pharaoh from _life_.

This shoebox is infinitely better as far as living arrangements go.

"And why the fuck aren't you?" out, he means - why the fuck isn't the Thief out. Out of Bakura's room, his things, his life. Out of his personal space is the first step he'd like to see the Thief take. Or, out of a window.

"Because."

"Well, go fuck him or something."

"You go. Slut."

"Huh?"

"Ya."

Bakura puts down his tablet where angry, finger-painted swirls are the single product of time well wasted. He puts it down, and then changes his mind and shoves it under the bed because there's a fight brewing. He can smell it, feel it - feels it as he would've felt it in his own bones and teeth - except he's on the receiving end of his own menace, and there is no comfort in knowing exactly what he was like when he was this guy.

"We got a problem?"

"Oh ya," says the Thief.

And then flops onto Bakura's matchbox bed. He even shoves to make room where there's no room for him.

Marik would say  it's like being a canned sardine on a Fry-day.       

"Seems to me," the Thief drones lazily and licks his way through his vowels as he settles, "I got my sticky fucking fingers all over your pretty toy, and my face ain't bashed in, so it got me thinkin' the fuck else you gonna let me do."

Bakura's actual opinion lands somewhere between _'anything'_ and _'me,'_ but instead he tells him: "blow me."

"Careful, sugar, I just might."

Bakura stares.

"I'm not even fuckin' around, damn," there's an arm slithering around just at the edges of Bakura's vision, which is about as much of a surprise as a box cutter Bakura has stashed behind the headboard. "Tell me to blow you. I'll do it, hell. I thought you got all dolled up an' now you're downright insulted an ugly motherfucker like me would put my ugly hands on pretty motherfuckers like you an' your sweetheart, but shit, you're just a pathetic little thing, aren't ya? You're not even fucking him."

"Well, sorry ma, didn't mean to grow up to be such a fucking disappointment."

He says it, but it stings just under his eyeballs because it's truer than anything this asshole could ever tell him. But maybe, just maybe, he can get him to believe his bullshit is fertilizer.

The Thief's fingers coil into his hair.

"I'll fuck you."

Bakura shrugs.

"Whatever's good."

"I ain't lookin' to make it good."

He's looking for a fight.

It's a safe world outside, and while Marik's busy throwing a tantrum over his supposed loss of his supposed masculinity, Bakura has a pretty good idea what thunders through that dented skull on a pillow next to him, rolling in his spilled hair and mapping him out for savory places to bite.

It's the rain, the cold, the lights that keep the night illuminated and pluck the stars right out of the sky. The Thief thinks hell spilled over. But he hasn't seen hell - not yet - and it's cute how he thinks cracking a few bones will grant him clarity.

But the Thief keeps his promises. He'll fuck Bakura because he said he would. Now, tomorrow, a month from now, but he'll fuck him.

And Marik... Marik's getting laid, too. Bakura's looking forward to hearing all about it.

But the thing is, if it's between now and later, well.

Bakura's lonely.

And not picky.

And when the Thief came to them from a world that was hot and dry and treacherous, he spilled a little hell on his way, too.

 ...and if he doesn't grab him right the fuck now, Bakura'll chew his lips right through looking for scars that aren't there.

The Thief's got Bakura's scars. _There's a certain tug every time you leer, right inside the mouth, when you've got a scar through your lip. It feels a certain way when you're you._

 _But you're not you,_ Bakura remembers, and even his fingertips aren't his own when he feels his old scars through them.

He's tender in his melancholy, and the Thief slaps him across the face for it.

It burns.

"The fuck happened to you," he hisses, and Bakura can see in his eyes that what he means is _'the fuck happened to me.'_

"Life," Bakura says and spittle lands on that jagged scar that once upon a time was a thing of pride to him. "Met a boy, got married. Got him to come inside me on a blimp once."

He doesn't remember ever being aggressive in bed, but then he doesn't remember many actual beds involved because those cost more than him.

He remembers strangers' hands in his hair, blades at his throat, ripped clothes and ripped skin, ripped balls and tongues once he's done with them, and more money they would ever give him freely for services rendered. And more scars.

Ryou is a Photoshop commercial on airbrushed legs. Even his fucking carpet matches his drapes, and if he wasn't blind enough to justify his tacky-ass collection of shitty colored contacts, Bakura would stoop low enough to swallow the long distance charge and call Brittan for some home decor tips from him because even Ryou's flaky pastry is getting filled with cream and Bakura's is not. 

Manly Bakura was always an ugly brute in a place where concubines with blemishes were sold at discount, but he's a god through Ryou's thirsty nearsighted eyes.

Not that Bakura can see him, now that the Thief crushing his face into cheap bedding.

"Where'd you put your pride, you slut?" he growls into the shell of Bakura's ear.

He's pissed he's not getting his fight.

Bakura's pissed, too, because he knows he's not getting fucked. At best - if he stays still and says all the wrong things like a bad boy up for a spanking - he might get to cum in his pants before the Thief gets too bored to finish what he started.

 So he clams up and takes it.

"We use our face holes for _speaking_ sometimes when we don't got a cock down there, hmm? Fuckin' speak. _Speak_!"

He grinds Bakura's face against shrieking mattress springs, squeezes the air out of him until his lungs burn - until he has to breathe through his mouth - and that's when nails scrape past his gums. There's an awful sound in his very scull, bone against bone, teeth scraping knuckles.

Fingers slip as far down his throat as they can reach.

He gags.

The corners of his mouth feel like they're tearing. He gags again.

The Thief grinds his knee into Bakura's spine and wrings the last breath from his useless body, and that's it, right here. Bakura earned himself at least this.

When he's allowed to breathe again, he savours the smell of ripe takeout on the floor. It fills him and he's so glad for  this kindness that he barely notices sandpaper skinning his legs bare.

There's spit on his pillow, right under his mouth. It's thick and viscous, and it smears all over his face when his teeth grate against fabric again.  

The Thief has heavy hands.  

One cracks like a whip on Bakura's ass - once, twice, _hard._ It stings all the way in his eyes, but the Thief is unyielding. The third strike makes Bakura mewl and brace for the forth. _Clench_ for the fourth.

It never comes. The Thief instead shoves his fingers between his burning cheeks and pries him open like Bakura's a thing - like there's a price on his fuckhole and the Thief wants to see the full value. 

"Fuck," he says, and the lull in violence makes Bakura think he's staring. "You look _like this_ , and you still can't get laid?"

"Must be our stunning personality," Bakura grits, gifts The Thief a handful of ripped hair so he can choke and die on it, and gets one mouthful of fresh air before a heavy hand backhands his smart mouth.

There's rust between his teeth, and his joints have rusted over, too, because he doesn't have to hold himself down anymore. He can't be bothered to move. He wonders why he'd wasted all that effort.

The hand in his hair goes, and so his balance goes. He drops limply and clenches again when one hand holds his ass parted and another flicks lightly against his hole.

"Pucker up, sweetheart," he mocks. "Or hit me."

 Ryou is such a fucking cockslut.

Bakura's getting split in two by two unkind fingers ramming him where he's softest until his asshole gives, and his dick just gets harder against a lumpy bedspring to make this that much more degrading.

It's a very intimate sort of pain, harsh and humiliating.

It overcomes him in waves of goosebumps until his stomach bottoms out and all he's left with is the bite of calloused fingers licking into him and the burning where he knows his asscheeks would bruise from the blows.

"S-spit on your hand or someth-thing," he hisses and inhales a mouthful of hair.

He half-expects the Thief to spit on him, but instead he gets a mouthful of fingers down his throat again, and he's impaled from both ends.

It's bad. It hurts bad and it feels bad, and he shouldn't want it.

But he wants it. And what Bakura wants Bakura steals, and the Thief won't even know it.

"Bite down, bitch."

He doesn't, lets his tongue try to coax bitten fingernails into kindness. He wants to relax for him, wants to _accommodate_ him, trick the Thief into believing Bakura didn't turn out a fucking disappointment after all.

He'd relax, and take it, and make him _like_ it, and make him think all he's done between now and stuffing his pockets full of raw dog meat on dirty streets of bronze age wasn't a waste of lives generously leased to him so he could experience a world that was gentle and forgiving unlike the hell that spawned a thief child from a prostitute and any of the dozen bandits that fucked her for half a silver coin.

And once jagged fingernails hollow him out loose enough to take a cock, he'll have his body back and be once again good enough to kill pharaohs and fuck idiot boys in tight pants, even if it is just for the few minutes it'll take the Thief to cum inside him and wipe himself off with Bakura's hair.

He's rougher now. Angrier.

Fingers dig into his flesh without mercy, and he feels a tell-tale hairline lighting slice up the depth of his hole. Something's torn.

"Hit me, useless slut," the Thief roars once he spots the damage,  "or I'll fuck you bloody!"

He smacks his ass again and it blisters, makes Bakura clench around his thick fingers, makes him choke and grunt and try to part his legs, but he's got jeans in the way and -

The Thief curses him, shoves a hand between Bakura's gut and the mattress and drags him half-way to his knees.

"C'mon," he mutters, more to himself than to Bakura, "at least tell me to stop."

He's hovering, got his hands in the roots of Bakura's hair. Pants brush against his naked ass, and it's a much softer caress than Bakura deserves.

His cock twitches now that there isn't a mattress he can rut against and pretend it's Marik's hand.

He won't fuck Bakura either way.

Neither of them will.

But he wants it.

Gods fucking help him, he wants it - in any way - with anyone who'd have him.

"Tsk," the Thief spits in disgust eventually, and it's thunder in a room where they'd hear a pin drop. At this point he's just fucking Bakura steady with two dry fingers. It's punishing and distant, but it's getting better now that the Thief has little left to take out on him.  

Bakura would beg for whatever scraps the Thief would spare.

If the Thief can stand to see himself a dainty little thing with pretty hair and a swollen pink asshole begging on his knees for a hand job - or even a fucking pat on the back while Bakura wanks into his own hand, then fuck it  - he will _beg_ for it.  

"Well," the Thief realizes where it's heading, too, pulls the last of his fingers from Bakura's mouth and cleans out his ear with second-hand spit. "Whatever. Turn around, or something."

Bakura still won't move, so he awkwardly manhandles him onto his back in a heap of ruined pants and wild spiderwebs.

Bakura's face is plastered with spit-soaked hair, and he can't close his mouth.

His teeth are cold.

"You still with me?"

Bakura means to say yes, but all he manages is a "mh" and lets his arms spill at his sides. Stares at the ceiling. Breathes.

So the Thief King kind of shrugs because he's a merciful King, settles cross-legged next to him, takes hold of Bakura's swollen cock and jerks it a bit. Keeps massaging his insides with lazy fingers like it's an office dayjob and he'd rather be pushing pencils. Yawns.

He's bored.

He's bored with Bakura, but he doesn't leave, and that benevolence alone is warmer than the release that's welling up in Bakura's belly.

Bakura moans and claws his way through it when it boils out of him, out of his veins, his pores. He's losing his mind: he can feel it spilling, too.

But it's just his dick spilling, in the end.   

It's not even good.

Bakura's shirt and legs are smeared with cum, and he's lying there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen.

Something else, something better than this.

The Thief lets him ride it out for a bit longer, and when he's done Bakura wraps his own hand around his tired dick to make sure that this is really all there is to it.

His dick protests and coughs up dust.

His whole body protests.

His ass cheeks tingle viciously.

"Right. So. What the fuck?" the Thief asks him after a while, once he stretches himself out on Bakura's tiny bed at Bakura's side and gets bored of knitting hairs into knots.

"He's in his fucking field of reeds now. The fucking pharaoh. He got his fucking afterlife."

The Thief doesn't understand what this has to do with anything. You'd think he'd get used to it by now, with Marik's bullshit wallets, but it's all as much nonsense to him as the Earth being not flat and the miracles of flushing toilets.

"Why the fuck do you think you're here? We grabbed the wrong asshole, you dumb prick."

He gives Bakura this look, all _'you're trying to bring our arch fucking nemesis back to life so you can kill him?'_ and, and-

And, well, _yeah_.

"Slut," the Thief tells him, "you need to get _laid_."

"Fuck, you think so?" Bakura snipes. "Marik's having a crisis 'cause of you. Your dumb face with your dumb scar set my sex life back to the fucking stone ages, which is by the way how old you are, you walking erectile dysfunction ad. You can fuck right off."

"Like you even seen his tits before I flashed you some."

"Shut the fuck up," Bakura tells him flatly and tries to stuff a pillow under his tender ass. "You couldn't even get it up."

Wisely, the Thief remembers Bakura remembers being him, and shuts the fuck up.

A minute later, he chuckles.

"Fuck. You ain't the one I gotta have a _conversation_ with. You figure he'll bash my face in?"

Bakura can bash faces in well enough himself, thank you.

Except, his cheeks get hot in places that won't turn black and blue in the morning. He'd like that - he'd like that very much. Marik won't, not on his behalf, but it's a nice daydream.

And then he hears real flesh-and-blood Marik sing his way through the front door, and Bakura is horrified enough, for no reason at all, to sit up.  

"[C'mere!]" the Thief sings back, leaps off the bed and plucks Marik smoothly right from Bakura's newspapered doorway.

Marik still got his outside shoes on, but the Thief settles him into Bakura's trashed bedding quicker than he can remember to toe them off. He's startled; his sharp eyes are alert and clever, but he's not entirely unhappy about being greeted in this manner. The Thief is unthreatening and quick, so what does he have to worry about?

He threads through Marik's brows with one hand and cleans hair off Bakura's face with the other. Ryou's skin's all silk and baby fat, and Bakura's real hands are a sandpaper document of scarred up peasantry. His thumb is jagged, and his mouth is prickly with dead skin, but he holds Bakura steady by the neck and kisses him with it all the same. 

He has them both sitting side-by side, and Marik waits his turn like a good boy for like five seconds it takes the Thief to do a whole lot of things.

He's different with Marik when he kisses him. Or he would be if Marik would keep his eyes closed, but instead he swipes sideways at Bakura through heavy lashes and finally notices the mess the Thief made of him.

He recoils like a universe of common sense exploded inside his peanut brain.

Then, Marik Fucking Ishtar, without his rod and with pockets full of dry pasta, punches the Thief King Bakura in the face with his fist.

No questions asked.

"He's got no insurance, [you fucking idiot]," Bakura preaches with his pants down and shame all over his thighs. "Who's gonna pay for this?"  

Bakura's gonna pay for this, that's who.

The Thief wipes blood from his face. His nose might be broken.

"Heh." There's red between his teeth. "[There you go.]"

Marik doesn't seem to care much for context.

"[You hit him more, I fucking kill you.]"

It warms Bakura's gut better than a thousand shitty orgasms.


	3. Receipts

1.

"[Oi, oi. Calm down, little slut]," the Thief says and pats Bakura's hair.

He went to sleep on the couch and woke up to a stab wound and Bakura screaming at Marik about high costs of insurance and upholstery. 

Marik tells Bakura later in the privacy of a language that is native to neither of them that he's really itching to put a knife through the Thief's brain, so Bakura has to sit them both down and play bad telephone between a moron and a guy who doesn't know what a telephone even is.

Marik, it turns out, is very territorial about things he is "too straight" to do himself, and he's concerned that if he bludgeons Past Bakura to death with a toaster Present Bakura will die too and never pay him back for years of soft-shell taco takeout.

The Thief, during his turn of mediation, discloses that he is vaguely concerned that someone else might steal the Items from the museum. He's never met Yugi Motou or his assorted cardboard entourage, so it's hard to convince him they are more likely to play card games against the museum's fucking front door than to come up with a competent plan.  

The Thief is also unrepentant about "dipping into Marik's stuff," and Marik takes it entirely the wrong way.

In the end, Bakura gladly spends the rest of the day lounging around like a king. Icepacks are his throne, and Marik brings him things for maybe an hour until he gets bored of being doting and fucks off to do whatever.

"Was it even good?" he asks Bakura in passing. He's filling up a duffel bag with kitchenware, pennies, and dry pasta. He says he's going out for a while, but it's like he's lingering to see if Bakura wants to ask him to guard him for a bit.

But Bakura doesn't, so eventually Marik stuffs his pockets full of Kraft macaroni and tells him to text if he needs anything.

Bakura has no energy to ask him what the fuck.

"Not really."

"Well," Marik huffs, "of course it wouldn't be any good."

He goes away for a while, comes back covered in mud and glitter, and if Bakura and the Thief weren't busy sucking face on the couch they'd notice that his bag lost a whole lot of cutlery and gained a violet aura of the shadow realm and an unsubtle twinkle of magic.

When Bakura hears the Ring's whisper, he's not even surprised.

He doesn't say anything though, so Marik stares between him and the Thief and how they've got their hands all over each other, and he finally believes Bakura when he says there is nothing actually wrong at all.

He goes away again, comes back with stationary from the dollar store with no duffel bag full of magical artefacts in sight.

The museum calls their house an hour later to thank them for their donation.  

"Did you at least check if my Ring's okay?" Bakura complains from the Thief's lap. "If any of the dangly bits get lost, I swear to fuck."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Marik sings, but he had that popsicle the other day and now his throat is completely fucked up. He sounds like he's gargling pebbles and dying. "I'm gargling pebbles and dying, Bakura. If I die, who's gonna make money to buy our Items back? At least help me with these wallets!"

"Then you should've taken people's actual wallets and not this giftshop crap from the fucking _museum_ of all places," Bakura tells him flatly, and it's an argument far better than the one where Marik just got their shit back not even an hour ago and then _returned it back to the museum_. "Couldn't you at least get the Gucci ones, there's literally a store down the fucking street."

"New wallets are worth more money, Bakura! Who would want to buy crappy used wallets? And Gucci is a middle-class brand, Bakura. Middle class!"

Bakura doesn't really care.

"Have fun in retail."

So Marik googles jobs that pay higher than retail and decides he's going to be a scientist now. He declares he needs some peace and quiet to read some research and locks himself in his room.

"[The fuck is he doing now?]"

"[Wanking.]"

Marik comes back half an hour later with a notepad and an iPad but no pen, and in the time it takes him to find one Bakura notices the screen is a brick wall of text with so many iterations of the words 'tight,' 'ring,' and 'muscle' that what Marik considers 'research' is the furthest thing from 'scientific.'

He points his pen between Bakura and Manly Bakura once he's got one, and says "we are going to write down what we would do to each other if I was into all that nonsense, which I'm not. I need gays for research. For science. I'm writing a... a novel."

Bakura just cleans his ear out and scratches one foot with another. Yawns into the Thief's knee.

"Wallet business slowing down?"

Marik bristles and fakes a coughing fit.

"I am dying and I need to leave behind a legacy!"

"[What's he sayin'?]"

Bakura bites his cheek and considers.

"[Testing waters]," he says in common. "[Play along, I think he's trying to get laid.]"

"[Why you say in wrong language, I do not understand!]"

The Thief tilts his head at Marik a bit like a river crocodile with way too many teeth, measures him and his pen and his paper, then shifts under Bakura to free up a leg from under him.

He's still got a steady hand in his hair, so no one's moving anywhere anytime soon.

He pats his freed thigh at Marik and gestures wide.

"[What he say!]" Marik demands. "[I do not like you two very! Ignore my scripture, never mind!]"

There's a welcoming laziness in the Thief's open arms, and Bakura cranes his neck to see him grin and clench his fingers around air like Marik didn't just ice over and shut the fuck down. 

"[What]," he says slowly and lets his clipped consonances hiss between gaps in his teeth. "[is he]," he pauses for Marik to absorb the new verb, "[say-ing.]"

Marik blinks his irritation away and squints at two lazy gays lounging on the couch. He remembers he had a purpose and a resolve not even thirty seconds ago, and to Bakura it's like watching fail cat compilations where there's a whole lot of wiggling and very little jumping.

Amateur RedTube pornos are a thing of the distant past of like five hours ago. The Thief stumbled on cat videos and never looked back to see that Bakura doesn't really care for either. He cares for a hand in his hair, though. Likes the way the Thief squeezes his shoulder and sometimes picks up Ryou's dainty hands to inspect his flawless nailbeds and soft palms when his cats are buffering.

"[What is he. Sayen? Say...]," Marik tries to repeat, but the Thief won't help him again, just flexes his empty grasp at him and beckons - and what do you know, Marik clearly hasn't seen enough laser pointer vines to know taking bait isn't a good idea.

A quick yank, and he lands smoothly in the Thief's lap.

Bakura turns onto his back and stares upside-down at him.

"[Saying]," he helps.

"[Saying]," Marik repeats firmly. "[What he is saying!]"

"[He's sayin' he thinks you like us.]"

"[I do not like you two very because you two are men]," says Marik from the Thief's lap and lets Bakura's hair spill all over his crotch.

He's got an arm around his waist, and it squeezes him with the same halting purpose it would pull Bakura's hair, and Bakura can hear blood rush through his ears. His ass tingles with ghost blows. He shudders.

"No," the Thief shoves his face well into Marik's face and sort of stares him down into staying put. He clips his single vowel, and 'no' makes up about a quarter of his total Japanese vocabulary.

But he's a well-spoken peasant.

Marik hides behind a bitchface.

"[I do not need you say what I do not like.]"

"[Sugar, you need a good dicking to screw your head on the right way]," the Thief tells Marik and gingerly pats Bakura's ass, "[and he needs a bit more than nothin'.]"

"[Better spousal maintenance]," Bakura agrees because why the fuck not dunk his head into this particular can of worms. Everything's a can of worms with Marik, and anyway, Bakura is secure where he is, and there's safety in a coarse hand drawing lines down the length of his throat.  

So they're married by the state of Las Vegas, right.

The one time Ryou tried to convince him it wasn't even a state Bakura hung up on his pasty ass because it's a topic made of thin beer bottles, and Bakura just might crack if he googles it and it turns out the whole thing was a sham to swindle drunken card game finalists out of their prized cards.

Bakura's still trying to figure out which cards he's missing. If any.

It's a sore topic for Marik, too, and he bristles in the Thief's lap, and, for a second, forgets to play the idiot. His clever eyes flick between the Bakuras, and he's sharp and regal, a prince in his own right, an heir to a crumbled empire.

He grins then, and it's got teeth in it. He's a total dork once he remembers himself and bites it down, but there's no mistaking his fleeting entitlement to both thieves within his reach.

"[Right, whatever. My scripture about men who do a fucking with men]," he waves his notepad lovingly titled 'yaoi,' and he's not even mad when the Thief snatches it and chucks it away.

Marik got a knee grinding into the Thief's crotch now. Bakura can feel his hair catching there.

He sighs, and the Thief remembers Bakura still kind of exists in his lap.

"[Go for a walk, slut.]"

 _Wooooooooow_.

Fuck this guy sideways with a rusty spoon.

There's a hand over his mouth before he gets to _clarify_ his _feelings_ about the _situation_ , and there's a hand over Marik's frowning lips, too.

"[He'll come back in a bit]," he tells Marik, and to Bakura: "[Come back in a bit. Bring us that Starbucks shit.]"

There's a Starbucks a minute around the corner and twenty more if Bakura accounts for the line.

"Whatever," he mutters, gets up and flips them both off. "For the fucking record, Marik, there's a nine out of ten chance his dick won't even get hard, so it's not even _gay_ , right?"

He slams the door on the way out.

Goes to a gas station instead and buys a soda and two-for one cherry suckers with Marik's expired coupons.

Remembers that the Thief can't do it in twenty minutes.

Remembers Marik would need a whole lot of romancing.

Thinks he'll come back to cat videos and wallets.

Calms down a bit.

Comes back with a sucker between his lips, and Marik's sitting on his knees, naked, biting his fist bloody, and the Thief's spoiling his ass silly with what must be a truly spectacular fingerbang because holy shit, Marik is _loud_.

_How the fuck does this even happen!_

He catches Bakura with his glossy eyes, and they're so feral that even Marik knows he better gag himself else he'll break through own skin and demand from them things that should've been his by birthright.  

Bakura freezes in the doorway and drinks in the sight of his sweat glittering on brown skin and his cock bobbing out the Thief's fist. His voice cracks in high notes, and it's a litany of "aaaaAAAa" and wow, good, very good, holy shit, yes, thanks.

Could he wank to this, possibly?

He'd pull his pants down, sit his beaten ass on their dirty carpet and walk away with a nasty carpet burn when he's done, but at least he'd enjoy himself for once. He would open his legs and jerk off to the sight them, maybe even touch himself where Ryou's body likes it.

Maybe they'd let him _touch_ them. Hell, what would Bakura give for that.

 His mind is still kind of buffering, and Marik's slutty body is the pane that freezes, burns into Bakura's retinas, surges through his insides and cleans a bit of dust from that worthless pride of his.

He imagines it, but instead the Thief pins him with his eyes and nods him over, so Bakura goes to them on cotton legs and gingerly sits at Marik's side.

He covers his gnawed fist with his palm, and his touch is tender and enchanted, but Marik just throws himself around Bakura's neck, pulls at his hair and screams bad words at him.  

These fuckers have a hair fetish.

Hell, everyone Bakura _knows_ has a hair fetish.

But Marik clings to his rigid shoulders and moans his name - Bakura's name - and Bakura holds him tight and peers down his beautiful back to see the Thief's fingers disappear between the curves of his ass.

Bakura wants to see.

He wants to see him spread around the rim, wants to see his pink shades where he's thin and vulnerable. He looks at the Thief, begs him for it, but the angle's crap and Marik's cumming any second now.

The Thief got no free hands, but he has his toothy mouth, and he kisses Bakura with it until his lips are wet enough to shudder when he whispers to him, "[finish him with your mouth.]"

There's an idea, and he pulls his hair out of Marik's teeth, catches nipples and abs with his lips on his way down, settles on the floor with his face inches away from Marik's gorgeous leaking cock.

Bakura waits on his knees, feels bristly carpet right through his jeans, watches precum leak from Marik's engorged tip. It looks good. It smells good.

The Thief releases Marik's cock when he's pleased enough with Bakura's patience, pries Bakura's mouth open, slips his cum-smeared fingers as far down his throat as they would go to make sure it's nice and wet in there.

 Bakura holds his mouth open and his teeth covered for a minute until the Thief deems him acceptable and guides Marik's leaking cock to his lips.

Marik is a solid weight on his tongue, and he tastes like body fluids and years of sexual frustration.

And once he finally tastes him, Bakura thinks he would appreciate him and remember this for as long as he lives - but Marik is considerate for all of maybe ten seconds before he's pulling Bakura's hair and shoving himself down his throat.

Bakura gags, chokes, reels, but Marik is cumming for him, and so he bolts himself to the floor and lets Marik fuck his cum into his facehole until the Thief drags them apart and finishes him into his hand.  

His throat takes a suffocating minute to open back up, and once he's done coughing and blenching, Bakura swallows everything down along with his own bile.

He goes to wipe his face, but there's body fluids everywhere.

He's not tired, but he really doesn't want to move ever again, so he almost lies down on the floor with his thighs squeezed together. His cock is tight inside his pants, tight inside his own skin, and he wants Marik to see that Bakura can be every bit a good boy, too.  

But Marik just rolls onto his side once the Thief gives him the span of the couch so he can pick Bakura off the floor and carry him to Marik's bedroom.

"[Do I look done to you?]" he says like he didn't just fuck the prude of the century cleanly out of his mind.

 He drops the prude of the century next to Bakura a minute later, and they sort of lie on their sides and stare at each other.

Marik is looking worse for wear. He's shell-shocked, his lips are bitten bloody and there are too many thoughts flashing through his mind all at once, but he can't seem to articulate any of them.

Bakura reaches out to brush golden hairs from his cheeks.

"You're okay," he tells him and lets his hand linger. They're touching - finally touching - and there is no urgency to savor the sensation because he knows Marik won't spring away and pretend he lost his own game of gay chicken.

 And then they're kissing.

It occurs to Bakura that he had Marik's dick down his throat before he kissed him, but that's just the natural flow of things between them, he supposes. They are the men they are. And maybe, just maybe, Marik wasn't the one with a masculinity crisis after all.

But Marik's kisses pack a bite, and Bakura doesn't care for much after that.

He cares for hands, though. There are so many gentle hands caressing Bakura's skin. He lets himself lull into the closest pair, loses his shirt for his oblivious trust. Loses his pants.

He's kissing Marik, but there are teeth between his shoulder blades and strong hands around his waist pin him just short from shoving his naked body at Marik and sort of praying Marik would know what to do with it.

It's okay, though.

The Thief got them.

He reaches over Bakura and tips Marik's chin his way.

They look at each other like they have an understanding, and Bakura stares between him and feels a bit of dread creep down his bare spine. It's just the Thief's caress though, and soon enough it  wanders under the hem of Bakura's boxers.

It's Marik' hands that help him ease out of them gingerly.

Marik is still a bit winded and wide-eyed, and Bakura is more concerned about his cock springing free than he is about Thief's fingers rubbing finely against his asshole - or Marik staring at his bruises with disdain.

Ryou is not ugly by any stretch of imagination. And so Bakura isn't ugly because this pasty skin and round cheeks are now _his_ pasty skin and round cheeks.

And he's thirsty for dicks and a bit more vulnerable than he's been in his previous life. He likes his hair longer and girls just don't look as good as they did a million fucking years ago, just sort of _okay_. Some days Bakura salts the charred earth beneath his feet, and some days he doesn't really feel like doing much of anything.

 It's his body now.

He earned it.

If Marik doesn't like Bakura's bruises, he can suck it up. It's his dick that worries him. The Thief still has his clothes on, so it's Bakura's hard dick that catches Marik's attention. He sort of stares at it for a long moment and then tries to dodge it because it's pointing his way.

The Thief reaches for him again and flicks his nose

"No," he hisses at him in Japanese.

"[Do not hit again]," Marik snipes back.

They've talked about Bakura, and that thought alone tickles him almost as flattered as when Marik pats his cock with the back of his hand like it has teeth and would bite his fingers off or something.

Marik is _not_ supposed to know about that. That thing technically wasn't even Bakura, it was Zorc, and there's a mutual understanding between everyone who'd seen it that if someone brings up the dragon penis Bakura would bring up green hot topic hair and creepy underwear kinks.

But then Marik grabs his dick, and Bakura tries to concentrate on it because this is it - this is his reward - even if it is just scraps from a boy who wouldn't have him for years and a savage from his past life who's got quick fingers and a lot of oil, apparently.

It's good. The Thief rubs him out hot and yielding before he lets his finger slip inside.

Bakura bucks onto him and purrs into Marik's mouth.

They could work him much harder than this.

 And he'd let them.

He'd let them, but they're tender with his aching body. Marik won't bite his lip where it's split and he's ginger when he works himself up to grab a handful of ass. It's not long before his hand inches its way into the crevice.

He seems to think jerking Bakura harder might distract him, but his fingertips are cold at his warm rim and Bakura braces for it subconsciously.

The Thief licks his shoulder and tries to unstick hairs from his tongue.

"[Easy. He bled for me.]"

Bakura really, _really_ doesn't care, and Marik has no frame of reference to know how little that actually means, so he glares at the Thief like he just might kill him after all and then takes Bakura's face between his hands.

"You okay?" he says, and it's the first thing Marik says to him. It grounds him into Bakura's reality, makes his naked skin real and tangible. "I could still kill him for you if you want."

"Sure," Bakura hisses and drags Marik's hands back around his dick where they belong, "after he's done."

 

2.

One of the wallets is somebody's wallet, probably the first of the batch, and it's full of cash.

Marik throws it straight into a waste bin. 

"Who would want to buy a ratty old wallet?" he cringes in disgust.

They need wallets to sell for money to buy their Items back from the museum to send the Thief back as soon as possible and exchange him for one dead pharaoh.

Bakura doesn't bat an eye, but he does take the money from the trash and buys them eighty bucks worth of takeout. He uses an expired coupon - which is like stealing, really - and his record of never paying for things remains untarnished.

"I wanted pizza," Marik complains. 

They end up returning the wallets after a week and manage to get a solid fifty dollar refund.

They keep the Thief.


End file.
